


Cold Blood in Russia

by yakamoz



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Gen, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:37:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3551195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakamoz/pseuds/yakamoz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vorona returns to Russia after the events that transpire in Ikebukuro and finds that once again, Russia is a country where she feels nothing but the chill of ice, and the warmth she left behind in the land of the Rising Sun has faded into warm vignettes in her memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Blood in Russia

Nagoya Airport bustled around her, Vorona’s footsteps drowned in the noise as she walked towards the check-in desks for Swiss Airlines to hand in her luggage. She lifted it up herself and let her eyes wander over the suitcase. Not much of her belongings had remained, and she had not brought a many good deal when she had arrived either. Compact living was the original plan and she had kept to it.

Now, it felt as if she took too few memories with her. It was better than none, and she did not fear persecution from her father at least. Perhaps they would speak now. It hardly mattered, she felt it made little difference even if he engaged her with hostility. But if she had learned anything from Shizuo Heiwajima in the very end, it was to seek peace first.

Her flight was long, but comfortable. The cushions of her seat – first class, bought with the last of her back up money, with all the comforts she could ask for – almost enveloped her all over. The medical book in her hands was being read, but all information was being processed in her brain as if through an inkless printer. Only shadows of the words, and they would fade when her thoughts broke.

Towards the end of the flight she became terribly bored with the textbook, and slightly overwhelmed by her own reflections of her year in Japan, so she put the book back in her bag, and extracted a murder mystery novel about a troubled outcast detective. Somehow, it was completed by the end of her journey, and she stepped into the jet bridge with a sort of fondness in her heart for the protagonist.

No one greeted her at the airport, but she hadn’t expected anyone to. Quickly paying a taxi driver, she gave her home address directly for once and sat through an hour’s additional journey until she was dropped off in front of her own front gate.

Her house had not changed.

“It is the same,” she murmured to herself in her native tongue, and picked up her luggage.

Just as the outside, it was cold when she stepped inside. Somehow, she did not want to set the bag down yet. Uncertain of the reason for her discomfort, she took a look around the ground floor, walking about her own house as if stepping into it for the very first time.

It did not take her long to realize no one was home. It was still well kept, no mess or dust on their furniture, lending to the assumption that her father most likely continued to hire help to maintain the building even during both their absences.

All was undisturbed, and she remained reluctant. Her hand kept holding her bag up and began ascending the stairs and towards her room without pause.  
Only when she set her bag down inside her own, equally unfamiliar room, did she realize how cold it was. Not one for poetry, not her, but when she sat on her bed and looked around her room, she saw everything in dulled, greyed colours.

There was no warmth in this house. Her heart felt heavy and she recognized resignation settling deep, permeating through her memories of a warmer space. Just what had she gotten so used to, that felt absent now? Why was it so obvious and unbearable only when she finally let her bag down?

She remembered people smiling when she closed her eyes. When she lied back, she remembered someone telling her to rest. When her chest filled with the cold, sterile air of her room, there were lights and people bustling.

Smiles zoomed out and she saw faces, of a man with dreadlocks who had attempted to flirt with her in terrible Russian, of another in a bartender suit and warm hands that had shown her kindness that none other had before, then Samia and Denis, the two who looked upon her with mercy still after their years apart.

She remembered warm brown eyes telling her to take it easy, asking her if she wanted something warm to drink. She recalled muttered cursing further away and she had smiled. She had not lain for long and that was an evening she had felt was the warmest in all her memories.

These were not emotions she could truly put a name on, but they were there and in a very different turn of events, she felt herself experience gratitude. She had called herself a beast to save another who was at the edge, and she had believed it. She still believed it. But it was a nice thought, and a nice memory, of someone who told her she was not.  
All illusions faded when her eyes opened again, and she smiled a bitter smile.

Russia was still very cold.


End file.
